My Racial Profile

"Most disquieting reflection of all, was it not bad form to think about good form?...It was proof to the unhappy Hook that Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of good form."—James M. Barrie

But it doesn’t stop there. You have two parents, four grandparents,
eight great-grandparents, etc. Counting thirty years per generation, as
genealogists do, three hundred years ago you have one thousand
great-times-nine grandparents. Six hundred years ago, you have a million. Nine hundred years ago, you have one billion direct mothers and fathers.

Now, nine hundred years ago there were only two million people in the
British Isles, which means everybody there had to be my straight-line
parent—let me do the math, here—five hundred times over.

And as genealogists tell us, the only thing we know for sure about our
ancestors is that they slept around. What pours down through that
bottleneck that kept mine so busy?

Going back to the beginning, there seems to have been an aboriginal
people on those islands before the arrival of the invaders from Siberia,
a short people Tolkien immortalizes as Hobbits, and that’s as
scientific as we’re likely to get about them. Whatever happened to
them?

The land of my father’s people was occupied by the Picts, about whom
much has been written but nothing is known, except that rather than
conquer them the Romans simply built a wall across the thinnest part of
the island to keep them out.

The various waves of Celts that swept in seem to have left them intact
until the Irish, who, when Ireland was called “Scotland,” invaded
Pictish territory and took over the Highlands. But that was later.

I gave my first novel to an old Belgian painter, and when he finished it he said, “You’re a Celt!”, though my name might have tipped him off.

The first traders to come to the remote British islands ("British" is a
Celtic word) were those adventurous Phoenicians, who must have left
behind some of their seed—what sailor doesn’t?—so there’s Syrian blood
in my background.

Britannium was a Roman province for four centuries, a long time
by any standard—street lights, highways, libraries, museums, swimming
pools, a police force, central heating—yes! The Romans built their houses over pits of live coals so the heat came up through every part of the floor. They
knew how to live there. Not till the Americans took over was it again
possible to be warm and clean at the same time in Britain, though they
still don’t have the hang of it.

So there’s a lot of Italian in my racial mix. And into that civilized
and enlightened holiday spot for rich Romans came Diaspora Jews, Greek
high-school teachers, Alexandrian scholars, Côte d'Azur serving wenches—people from all over the Empire.

Soldiers guarding Hadrian’s Wall brought in their wives and families
from Spain, North Africa and Asia Minor. Archeologist are still finding
their jewelry and kitchen stuff. Moors, Arabs, Egyptians,
all in my family tree.

Then came those Hell’s Angels in boats, the Angles, the Saxons, the
Jutes (pronounced “Yutes”)—collectively speaking, the Germans.
Bastards. They burned it all down, pissed on the ashes and slaughtered,
raped, enslaved and married the Celts. The rest they chased into the
Welsh and Cornish hills, where they still are. Sort of like what the
Scots did to the Picts and what we did to the Indians. And Britain, for
the next thousand years, was more or less a camp.

And from all directions, a Viking. More bikers in boats. They filled
eastern Britain (King Mark of Norway complained that his country was
empty because everyone had gone to England), and built Dublin.

They went everywhere, and their habit was to take prisoners to row for
them; those they didn’t work to death they dropped at the next landing
and captured replacements. They must have brought in some Chinese,
because they came back with at least one carved Buddha; and some Russians. The
climate was warmer then, so sailing across the top of Asia wasn’t a
problem, any more than negotiating the ice mountains floating in Hudson
Bay. One of those turns over and it’s a tidal wave. Ah, the Vikings!

And they probably imported some North American Indians; we know from a
particularly vivid saga that they met them and fought them. And some
sub-Saharan Africans. International people, the Vikings.

But not sweethearts. They used to sail down to the French coast, beach the boats and run (run!)
to Paris, where they raped, killed, pillaged and burned, and then ran
back to the boats. One of the most aggressive of them was Rollo, and
King Charles made a deal with Rollo: take this strip of coast,
but defend it; keep the other Vikings away. He did, and when they
sailed down from Blondland they began making a right turn before they
got to "Normandy".

Rollo had two grandsons, one legitimate, one not, and the one not didn’t
have a kingdom, so he looked across the little channel at Angleland and
said I’m having that. If there’s one thing more to be feared than a
Viking it’s a Christian Viking, a Viking married to a Frenchwoman. Chilling. And William the Bastard was exactly that.

He organized Britain for war, which is what feudalism is. Aristocratic
titles are military offices, and from the ground up the purpose of the
smallest farm was to put a knight, or a share of a knight, in the
field. He counted every square foot in the country—they thought he was
nuts!—and wrote it all down in what by an exquisite piece of sarcasm was
known as the Doomsday Book. Only God knew as much. He made Hitler
look like a Boy Scout. (Actually Hitler did look like a Boy Scout.)

And for the next four hundred years the British aristocracy spoke
French; which is why we have two words in the language for every kind of
meat. “Boef!” called the lord. What’s that? What’s that? Cow, cow, give him cow. “Mouton!” What’s that?

“Parker” is a Norman name; it means “keeper of the park,” or the forest,
a high office because only the king was allowed to shoot the deer,
except for Robin Hood. And there are lots of Parkers, just as there are
lots of black people in America named Jefferson. Our fathers took the
name of the manor they were attached to, and came by it honestly because
the lord had had his way with their mothers.

Which brings us down to the two-million bottleneck. Of course people have poured in since then, which renders precious even these speculations.

According to tradition the Black Irish, those of us who don’t have
Nordic coloring, were fathered by Spanish sailors who swam ashore when
the Armada was wrecked. My father's mother's uncle didn’t know where in
Ireland he was from: one morning as a small boy he just got up and
walked down to the port, boarded a ship and sailed away. Where you
from, kid? Ireland.

So there I am, a pure-bred
Celtic-Pictish-Syrian-Italian-Jewish-Greek-Moorish-Arabic-Egyptian-Gallic-Anglo-Saxon-Viking-Chinese-Russian-African-Amerindian-Spanish-English-Irish-Scottish-Welshman,
with a trace of Hobbit.

I love it! I've always said the British were the greatest mongrel breed! I have at least English, Cornish and Irish in my background and as you say, heaven knows what else. When you look at it this way, it is impossible to look down on any other race because they might be part of who you are. We are certainly all one people!

The earliest MacLean ancestor on whose existence and position we can depend is Dubh-gall Sgoinne,known as Old Dougal of Scone. He was born about 1030 A.D. and is well documented. The MacLeans are undoubtably of Celtic origin. Their ancestors may have been Picts, Scots or Britons, with a slight bias towards the Scots. Gilleain was the progenitor of the MacLeans and was their first chief. He was born about 1210 and lived in Argyll. He was known as Gillean na Tuaighe, meaning Gillean of the Battle-Axe, his favourite weapon. His son Maoliosa or Malise succeeded him about 1240. He fought under Alexander 111 at Largs in 1263. And so it goes. Me, I am descended from Malcolm MacLean of Ardgour and his wife Flora Campbell. Their son Allan married Una McLean the daughter of Neil Maclean of Crossopol and his wife Mary Stewart, whose father Stewart of Snodgrass was the son of the Earl of Bute. And so it goes. Allan and Una's daughter Ann was my great great grandmother. After her brother Hugh came back from a 'look' at Australia, the family sold Aralioid, their lands on Coll, bought a ship, snd sailed for Oz, subsequently introducing black angus cattle to Australia, and merino sheep to New Zealand. And so it goes, cousin. Yours David Hannay

I was raised (in Europe) to think I was a pure 100% American. That's because my great-etc maternals came over on the Mayflower, and my great-etc paternals came over just five or so years later. So they were all cavorting together as pilgrims. But then I found out (after I was a grown-up) that the Winslows were rather interesting English people before they left, and the Eliots who'd stayed behind were lords and ladies who originally had come over with William the Bastard and been granted lots of southwest England in gratitude. After reading your piece about English ancestry I realize this: WE ARE ALL RELATED!! :-) Hullo, cuz!

Robert.. i truely enjoyed your writings.. you are so talented.. i am totally impressed and honored to be considered a friend. and CUZ.. although i think you are so HOT! not a good sign for a cuz!!! lololLaura Novak

I'm Cherokee (Native American), Italian, Portuguese, Black. There are many titled and royal favorites among my relatives. The Italian, Portuguese arrived in Maryland. The Cherokee lived in North Carolina and Tennessee. The Black, Kentucky. I'm a real mixed bag..lol.

Parents both Italian. Recently learned my ancestors (Dad's) probably fled to desolate mountain town in Italy to escape enemies...from Torino originally. Mother's family 6-8 generations back probably left Spain (Sefardic jews) because of the persecution there (last name Gabriel). Neither family is Catholic...

I thought there was a resemblance. Good to see we're all related. If ancient Britain was the gene pool for America, America is the gene pool for the New Earthling. I can see it happening as I write, down here in Miami and the Beaches.